


Hidden Inside My Head

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Empty House, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Sherlock imagined his and John's reunion to be, and the one way it actually went down. An Empty House fic.</p>
<p> <i>He turns his face away from the pelting rain and picks the lock. Once inside he climbs the stairs, knocks on the sitting room door and braces himself for what’s to come. Because it could be anything.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Inside My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: imagined suicide/character death
> 
> A/N: Written for a prompt: Five ways Sherlock imagined his and John's reunion to be, and the one way it actually went down.
> 
>  
> 
> **CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR S2 E3**

 

 

  
**One ~ A Fantasy**  


**  
_’He used a diamond.’_  
**

  
It’s so much easier than he expected. In fact it’s like magic.

All of the shouting and accusations, the almost tears and then actual tears, all of it had just come to a screeching halt, replaced by surprise and then instant forgiveness and boundless joy the moment Sherlock had dropped to one knee. No wonder ‘ordinary people’ did this sort of thing.

A brilliant grin is spread across John’s face as he stares down at it, the square-cut diamond inlaid into the surface of the thick gold band which now encircles his finger. John looks at him, eyes shining bright with affection.

Remarkable. Apparently crystallized carbon is also tougher than deceit and heartbreak...

~~~~~~

Sherlock sits alone in a restaurant, eyes fixed on one of Moriarty’s former associates. A squeal of pure delight interrupts his focus.

He glances over to a young woman who is looking down at the nervous but earnest face of the young man kneeling at her feet. In the next moment they are wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

Sherlock watches them as his imagination takes off. He smiles at the ridiculous scene now playing in his head.

Just a few more seconds, that’s all he allows himself, then he clears his mind and forces his attention back on his mission.

 

  
**Two ~ A Daydream**

**  
_‘Which is why I find ‘the face’ so annoying.’_  
**

  
He’d forgotten just how hard John can punch.

John looms over him, red-faced and puffing out violent breaths. “A thousand? Really? Try a _million_ apologies, Sherlock!”

He looks past John towards the ceiling, sighs loudly and closes his eyes, lets his head drop back against the sitting room floor with a soft thud.

Probably not a good time to mention that he _knew_ John was going to do that...

~~~~~~

He stares at the pile of papers scattered across the bed in his tiny hotel room.

The epiphany hits. Another piece of the puzzle, another step towards getting his life back. He smiles and instinctively looks up to announce his discovery.

But of course John’s not there. He’s not there to valiantly try to keep up with Sherlock’s deductions. He’s not there for Sherlock to amaze.

 

  
**Three ~ A Vision**

**  
_‘Confirmed bachelor John Watson.’_  
**

  
He no longer has keys. Not that he needs them. He turns his face away from the pelting rain and picks the lock. Once inside he climbs the stairs, knocks on the sitting room door and braces himself for what’s to come. Because it could be anything.

Water drips from his coat, pattering a slow rhythm onto the floor. He waits a few more seconds then picks that lock as well.

He knows within two seconds of entering the room. A few new pieces of furniture, just a bit _too_ modern for John’s more traditional taste. The faint hint of perfume underlying the achingly familiar scent of the flat. And oh yes, of course... photographs of the happy couple. Simple.

He suddenly, deeply, _profusely_ regrets the plan to refuse any news of John’s life. The plan to not distract himself any more than he already had been with thoughts of him. The plan to try to keep John suspended in time.

Because it didn’t work. John’s moved on.

Maybe it would have hurt less, _God_ , just a _little_ less, if he had known before now...

~~~~~~

Sherlock stares, not through the window but at the raindrops throwing themselves against it. Another train, another city, another countryside rolls by outside. He shakes himself, wakes himself, picks up his phone. He’s taken more than enough precautions, so the message to Molly should be secure.

The simplest codes are best, and she always seems to know exactly what he means. He types out a short inquiry:

_Any news from home?_

 

  
**Four ~ A Nightmare**

**  
_‘Joining me?’_  
**

  
There’s a warm, pleasant breeze, but Sherlock doesn’t feel it.

His eyes trace over the name carved deep into the cold black granite.

_Sherlock Holmes_

He’s done now. Found and fought them all and won. Gathered all of the proof needed to clear his name forever, and by extension John’s. Ever-loyal John.

But this doesn’t feel like victory.

The irony is that Sherlock’s supposed to be in this grave already. It’s _almost_ enough to make him laugh.

He’ll be in it for real soon enough. Not _playing_ dead this time. He just has to decide the best way to do it.

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to look over at it, _the other one_ , the dark horror that’s been lurking just outside his peripheral vision.

His eyes trace over the name carved deep into the cold black granite.

_John Watson_

Why did they make it exactly the same as his? John was nothing like him...

~~~~~~

Sherlock wakes with a shout, heart pounding furiously. It takes a few minutes for his breathing to even back out.

He rolls over, curls his arms around a pillow to approximate a comfort he longs for but can’t bring himself to name.

Just a little while longer. He’s almost done. He’s almost home.

 

  
**Five ~ A Fairy Tale**

**  
_’You’re worried they’re right about me.’_  
**

  
The small stack of antique books he’s holding falls to the pavement, spines cracking and pages coming loose. He picks them up, if only to avoid looking back into that window for a few more seconds. His heart feels like a red hot poker has just been thrust into it.

A display of a new book fills the bookshop window. He pushes the door open, steps inside on weak legs and picks up a copy of it, his hand trembling. He manages to keep an expression on his face that’s close to sane, though it feels as if he’s staring into the depths of hell as he reads the book’s cover:

 

_The Myth of Sherlock Holmes:  
My Life with a Criminal Mastermind  
by Dr. John Watson_  


  
A woman’s voice, the owner of the shop no doubt, the very person he had been coming to see to maintain his cover, “Oh that book is absolutely heartbreaking. Poor man unwittingly lived with a complete psychopath. If you’re interested in meeting the author he’s here for a signing.”

He’s not aware of clutching the book, hard, like he wants to kill it. He’s not aware of how he makes it through the shop to an open space filled with people sitting in a few neat rows of chairs. He’s not aware of anything but John, seated in front of an engrossed audience, _the_ book held open as he reads from it, looking small and solemn and determined.

He’d told John he was a fake. He’d asked him to tell anyone who would listen. But somehow he never thought he’d actually... and this... this doesn’t sound like skeptical acceptance. It doesn’t sound like an act. It sounds like... _catharsis_.

“It has taken a very long time for me to finally accept what really happened, to accept the truth. But still I mourn. I mourn for the life I might have made, a life untouched by the lie that was this twisted madman. But I also mourn for the lie itself, for my best friend, a man who never existed at all.”

Sherlock’s ears start ringing, so he doesn't hear the commotion he causes as he begins to faint. He falls. It feels like he’s drowning...

~~~~~~~

The small stack of antique books he’s holding falls to the pavement, spines cracking and pages coming loose. He has no intention of picking them up again.

The display in the bookshop window. _The Brothers Grimm_. Fairy tales. Nothing more.

He can’t. He can’t _do_ this anymore.

One man left to capture. John will help. John will _want_ to help.

But before that, before _any_ of that, there’s time. Time to explain himself, where he’s been. Time to explain what he’s done and why.

 

  
**And One More ~ What is True**

**  
_‘No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.’_  
**

  
It turns out to be a bit of everything.

John’s eyes are shining bright with affection.

John punches him.

John has a few new pieces of furniture.

It’s _almost_ enough to make Sherlock laugh.

And now, many explanations later, he’s drowning in John’s embrace.

But then John pulls away from him. “Sherlock, it’s just... when you fell... and then all this time... you have to understand how that...” he lowers his gaze, “I thought you were _dead_.”

Sherlock watches as misery draws a furrow across John’s brow. He’s never thought of doing this before, maybe just never let himself, but suddenly it’s the only thing he _wants_ to do. He kisses John’s forehead, softly, and says, “I know.”

John closes his eyes, goes very still, murmurs again, “I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock slips his hand under John’s chin to tilt his head up a little, kisses his cheek before he says once more, “I know.”

John breathes, says so quiet, “I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock drops his hand away from John’s face. John’s eyes are still shut tight. It feels like rejection. He closes his own eyes, tries to numb himself to the pain of it as he whispers, “John... I had to... I...”

It sounds like a heartbroken apology.

Sherlock doesn’t see it coming, just feels John’s lips against his own.

He flies through long, dark silence until he hears John speak, “Sherlock... I know.”

It sounds like unbreakable faith.

~~~

It’s growing dark in John’s bedroom as the sun starts to set. Soon they’ll have to rise and finish the job Sherlock started.

But for now they lie on top of the covers, in rumpled clothing, both men weary but warm, Sherlock curled around John’s sleeping form.

And it’s far better than anything he could have imagined.

 

  



End file.
